One Day & Another: A Lyrical Eclogue. Cawein Madison Julius

our city, one huge ember,

      Blazed within the thick eclipse.

      When you found me – deep December

      Sealed my icy eyes and lips.

      I forget. No one may say

      That such things can not be true: —

      Here a flower dies to-day,

      And to-morrow blooms anew…

      Death is silent. – Tell me, pray,

      Why men doubt what God can do?

      12

He, with conviction

      As to that, nothing to tell,

      You being all my belief;

      Doubt may not enter or dwell

      Here where your image is chief;

      Here where your name is a spell,

      Potent in joy and in grief.

      Is it the glamor of spring

      Working in us so we seem

      Aye to have loved? that we cling

      Even to some fancy or dream,

      Rainbowing everything

      Here in our souls with its gleam?

      See! how the synod is met

      There of the heavens to preach us —

      Freed from the earth's oubliette,

      See how the blossoms beseech us —

      Were it not well to forget

      Winter and night as they teach us?

      Dew and a bud and a star,

      These, – like a beautiful thought,

      Over man's wisdom how far! —

      God for some purpose has wrought;

      And though they're that which they are,

      What are the thoughts they have brought?

      Stars and the moon; and they roll

      Over our way that is white.

      Here shall we end the long stroll?

      Here shall I kiss you good-night?

      Or, for a while, soul to soul,

      Linger and dream of delight?

      13

They enter the garden again… She, somewhat pensively

      Myths tell of walls and cities that arose

      To melody. But I would build with tone,

      Had I that harp, a world for us alone,

      A world of love, and joy, and deep repose.

      A land of lavender light, of blue-bell skies;

      Pale peaks that rise against the gold of eve;

      And on one height, the splendors never leave,

      Our castled home o'er which the wild swan flies.

      There, pitiless, the ruined hand of death

      Should never reach. No bud, no thing should fade;

      All should be perfect, pure, and unafraid;

      And life serener than an angel's breath.

      The days should move to music; wildly tame

      The nights should move to music and the stars;

      And morn and evening in their opal cars,

      Like heralds, banner God's eternal name.

      O world! O life! desired and to be!

      How shall we reach thee? – dark the way and dim.

      – Give me your hand, love, let us follow him,

      Love with the mystery and the melody.

      14

He, observing the various flowers around them:

      Violets and anemones

      The surrendered hours

      Pour, as handsels, round the knees

      Of the Spring, who to the breeze

      Flings her myriad flowers.

      Like to coins the sumptuous day

      Strews with blossoms golden

      Every furlong of his way, —

      Like a Sultan gone to pray

      At a Kaaba olden.

      And the night, with spark on spark,

      Clad in dim attire,

      Dots with Stars the haloed dark, —

      As a priest around the Ark

      Lights his lamps of fire.

      These are but the cosmic strings

      To the harp of Beauty,

      To that instrument which sings

      In our souls of love that brings

      Peace and faith and duty.

      15

She, seriously:

      Duty? – Comfort of the sinner

      And the saint! – when grief and trial

      Weigh us, and within our inner

      Selves, – responsive to love's viol, —

      Hope's soft voice grows thin and thinner,

      It is kin to self-denial.

      Self-denial! – through whose feeling

      We are gainer though we're loser;

      All the finer force revealing

      Of our natures. No accuser

      Is the conscience then, but healing

      Of the wound of which we're chooser.

      Some one said no flower knoweth

      Of the fragrance it revealeth;

      Song, its soul that overfloweth,

      Never nightingale's heart feeleth —

      Such the love the spirit groweth,

      Love unconscious if it healeth.

      16

He, after a pause, lightly:

      An elf there is who stables the hot

      Red wasp that stings on the apricot;

      An elf who rowels his spiteful bay

      Like a mote on a ray, away, away;

      An elf who saddles the hornet lean

      To din i' the ear o' the swinging bean;

      Who straddles, with cap cocked all awry,

      The bottle-blue back o' the dragon-fly.

      And this is the elf who sips and sips

      From clover-horns whence the perfume drips;

      And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloam

      Awaits the wild-bee's coming home;

      In ambush lies, where none may see,

      And robs the caravan bumble-bee —

      Gold bags of honey the bees must pay

      To the bandit elf of the fairy way.

      Another ouphen the butterflies know,

      Who paints their wings with the hues that glow

      On